The changing details of my mother’s hands tell her life story

I find myself watching my mother’s hands more often these days. It shouldn’t come as a surprise, though. After all, observation is one of the most important skills any caregiver should have.

And while I am always keenly watching for any unexpected changes in my mum’s health, it is her hands that seem to fascinate me the most.

They rest on the bedsheet, thinner now, the skin almost translucent in the afternoon light gleaming through the window. These are the same hands that once cooked large pots of jollof rice for family gatherings, braided my sister’s hair with quick, confident fingers, and held me steady when I was a child learning to walk.

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Now, they move more slowly. The veins stand out like small rivers on a map I’m still learning to read. When she reaches for a cup of water, I notice the slight tremble, the careful way she adjusts her grip. I see the faded scar on her thumb from an old kitchen accident and remember the story she used to tell about it, laughing. And I smile whenever she laughs. Because if there’s one thing I know about this unpredictable journey, it’s how important it is to have a sense of humor.

There is no doubt that these hands have become one of my quiet teachers.

In the morning, when I help her sit up, I feel the familiar warmth and the new fragility at the same time. Sometimes she squeezes my hand — not as strongly as before, but with a meaning that needs no words. In that gentle pressure, I read gratitude, trust, and a shared understanding of where we are. Other times, when pain makes her fingers curl, I sit beside her and simply hold them until they relax again.

There is both loss and love in this observation.

I miss the strength that once existed in those hands. Yet I am also learning to see the beauty in their current story — the history they carry, the resilience they still show, the quiet dignity in their continued presence. They remind me that my mum is still here, still reaching, still connecting, even as myeloma changes the way she moves through the world.

Some evenings, I take a small bottle of lotion and gently massage her hands. The room fills with the faint scent of lavender. For those few minutes, time feels softer. I trace the lines on her palm and think about all the chapters these hands have written.

Her hands are teaching me that caregiving is partly about learning to read the new chapters — the ones being written now, in slower ink, but with no less meaning.

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